A LONDON JOHN
-1-
"Emma" he muttered quietly, leaning forward to squint at the blurred profile image in the hope it might gain clarity. The image was of a young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, wearing a simple black skirt and white blouse posed seductively in the kitchen doorway taking a selfie.
It was always 'normal' sounding names that captured his attention over the more 'pornstar wannabe' monikers with their crass-headlines and sordid intros. To him Emma seemed very real. The type of girl you might see on a commute across town or working in a shop.
The adult-work website had become an unhealthy obsession of late. Night after night he'd ferret himself away in his office, actually the spareroom upstairs, trawling the profiles of seemingly 'everyday women' leading secret double lives as independent escorts. It was more fascination at first. Fascination at just how many women there seemed to be doing this in areas he often visited. For the past few weeks he found himself passing strangers and wondering if they too offered 'services' here on this very website. He imagined them heading to a hotel or discrete location for sordid dalliances for money. The transactional nature of the whole thing somehow stirring his curiosity further like an itch on the roof of your mouth.
Originally it was camsites that lured him in. Early retirement had left him in the enviable position of having both time and money on his hands; the proverbial Devil's Workshop! He'd been tempted too but for the fact that a) he never had the privacy to indulge and b) the former accountant in him was cautious of having dubious transactions showing on his statements.
Somewhere along the line he must have clicked a link to the escort site and from there he found himself coming back again and again.
"Emma", he muttered once more as the hovering mouse arrow clicked above the 'read more' tab. A wry grin pinched the corner of his lips and with bated breath he checked back over his shoulder at the ajar door before reading the introduction and scanning the extensive list of ticked services.
She must have been relative new. She had just a couple of ratings, all positive. This reflected in the tariff too. Suddenly the urge to contact her sent a flurry of anxious excitement that flushed hotly on his face. Trembling fingers prepared to send a brief site-mail and test the waters.
[NEW MESSAGE 17/11/2021 20:35 GMT:: LondonJohn "Hello Emma, I've noticed your profile and wondered if you might have availability for an in-call one morning this week. Say Friday 11AM? John x"]
***
The phone shimmied to life on the kitchentop as she finished unpacking groceries. She didn't check straight away but when she eventually did her heart raced and a mixed emotion of dread and hope resonated in her gut. It was a notification from the 'site'. She'd started her profile just two weeks ago and already had had three confirmed bookings. The money was helping but it didn't feel great. It didn't feel bad either though. That was the hook that kept her from deleting it straight away.
She must have received almost two dozen 'requests' since going live. The first one came within an hour of being 'verified' and for the briefest moment it kindled a sense of hope that this was going to be easy money. But despite an exchange of messages it fizzled to nothing. New requests trickled in but even for her inexperienced eyes they were obviously time wasters. The success rate seemed to be about a little under a third of the traffic coming in.
She couldn't deny those three bookings had thrown her a lifeline though. Going through with them swirled dread, excitement and sobriety in near equal measure and although she didn't think of it just now, the products she'd just unpacked to the fridge were of the better brands she'd allowed herself to buy for a while. Eating well felt good. Clearing her bills felt good. Already having half of this months rent felt good.
She stood at the breakfast bar and logged into the app to read the message with a hand lightly pressed to her belly. 'John' sounded nice enough. The tone courteous and relaxed, with no demands. She mused and shrugged to herself, tapping out a reply. "Hi John, thanks for messaging. I could see you Friday, what would you have in mind? Em x" She pursed her lips and exhaled with a sort of 'nothing ventured nothing gained' attitude before trying to put it to the back of her mind as finished packing the shopping away.
By nine she had settled on her sofa with a welcomed glass of white and a plate of shop bought sushi and humous with celery sticks.
Escorting, 'sexwork', she reasoned was a pantomime world of deceptions, flirting and keeping control. She'd researched into it extensively before even signing up to the site. This itself was no easy feat and presented a series of hurdles that felt like dancing on a blade's edge of anonymity in terms of verifying ID, adding a phone number and uploading a profile picture. Rationally the methods seemed tried and tested as there were thousands already working from the site and it had a robust feedback and review aspect which made sifting time wasters from real prospects a little easier. She'd jotted notes in a pad made from reading other's experiences on blogs and in forums.
When it came to evaluating the likelihood of a positive booking she reasoned that a lot could be gained from the overall tone of the first message. She could check for member feedback, if they had none it didn't necessarily exclude them but it meant there was that chance it could all fall through. If they were suggesting times and dates a few days to a week ahead it meant they were making 'plans' to schedule it and more likely to be serious. Although it also meant there was more time for them to cancel. Requests for same day meets she felt carried greater risk so politely declined them. Sometimes the snidely responses confirmed her suspicions, but there's always exceptions to the rule as one of her better bookings had been a 'next day' meeting and the experience did not leave a sour taste. Just a salty one.
That was perhaps the hardest thing for her to commit to. How do you put a price on what you would do with a complete stranger paying for sex? Had the conversation been discussed with girlfriends in her twenties, which it had been once or twice, the figures were in the thousands but the basic rule of economics is that the price is whatever the market will pay. So the reality is that the humble bj is worth a lot less. It was better to follow convention and charge by the hour and set minimum booking periods. Besides, back then the girls were putting a price on their 'dignity', but for the vast majority entering sexwork 'dignity' isn't a commodity punters put a lot value in. Punters. That's what the 'clients of prostitutes are called'. They're also called Johns. Is John his real name? It's not like Emma was really hers.
***
'What do I have in mind?' He must have read and reread her response thrice over. There were lots of 'things' he'd like to do but is that what she was really asking? Should he just reply with a short list of things he'd enjoy doing from her listed 'services'? It seemed a little cold and functional but maybe that's what a dalliance with a prostitute is like?
